[fic] Time for Turnover. Kyrill/Nikolai. PG
How did I spend my winter break? I sledded, skiied (cross country and alpine) and went ice skating. This last one ended not so great when I landed on my face during a fall. In my defense, I first landed on my knee, than my elbow, which promptly slid on the ice towards me, and THEN on my face. So I walked around with a lot of bruises for a few days. My cheek is still green.
In that spirit, I bring you hurt/comfort fic for New Year's. Happy 2008 everybody!
Gawd, I start to forget html code after a couple of months away from livejournal >.<
I could not have predicted that I would like Viggo so much, ever.
Title: Time for Turnover
Fandom: Eastern Promises (is EP a fandom? no dedicated lj slash community to this canon slash stuff is really a criminal shame)
Pairing: Kyrill/Nikolai
Rating: PG
Warnings: slash, minor spoilers, unbetaed... because there is no EP fandom and/or I've let all my lj friendships lapse
A/N: Set after the end of the film
They’ve taken Papa away right during the New Year’s Eve party, and it’s disconcerting-there’s relief, but there’s also dread… isn’t he a dreadful son, Kyrill wonders, to rejoice that there will be no more kicks to the gut, no more humiliating slaps, no more devious little attempt to drive a wedge between him and everyone-him and his wife, his children, Kolya…
Kolya.
Kolya, who lies sprawled out on the ratty couch in the wine cellar under the restaurant, Sometimes a piece of the confetti from upstairs still floats down the staircase in the draft. There’s a piece of it in Kolya’s otherwise perfect slicked back hair, but damned if Kyrill is going to go pick it out. No, he’s perched uneasily on the armrest of the couch, watching Kolya out of the corner of his eye-Kolya who’s still wincing in pain if he shifts ever so slightly, his body tattooed not only in ink but deep knife wounds, still raw, like a primal rite of passage. He’s still wearing the tatty sweatshirt he came in from the hospital, and Kyrill can see his collarbones because the neck is wide and loose. Nothing like his usual getup.
Kolya is the reason Kyrill can be at ease about putting his father away. Fucking traitor. Like he couldn’t have handled those Chechen swine on his own, without Kolya taking the hit.
But no, it’s true. He looks at Kolya. ‘Siberian bull,’ he calls him, because his body, especially when out of his grim-undertaker-black suits is a juggernaut of raw, tense strength. And he got so fucked up by the two brutes. He was unarmed, and still took them out, in a fucking bathhouse. No, Kyrill would have died in a puddle of his own blood on that white tile floor, and he knows it.
“Kyryuha, hand me a bottle of something…” Nikolai exhales, barely moving his lips. It’s that cool manner that makes everything he says sound like an endearment, if not for the cold edge at the end, like tender flesh pressing up against a razorblade.
Kyrill jumps up to get an ancient bourbon from a crate, a little bit too happy, a little bit too hurried, so he takes care to saunter back, to miss Kolya’s outstretched hand and run the green glass of the bottle against Kolya’s cheekbone. Casual behavior becomes such a difficult art in his presence.
“Healing up, tovarish?”
“Neither here nor there,” Nikolai mutters in Russian, taking a small swig. He almost never drinks. The wounds must be hurting like a bitch.
“I hope he rots in jail,” Kyrill suddenly says, watching Kolya’s face intently for a reaction. “I hope he gets worse than what he set you up for. Papa or not, I have no feelings left for that bastard…” But Kyrill’s voice fades on the expletive, the spectre of his father still too fresh, perhaps, to be talked about lightly.
“Semyon knew his stuff,” Nikolai says, resting the bottle on the floor, still more than three quarters full. “He just underestimated with me.”
“Well, it’s time for turnover, as they say. I know your worth. You’re my right hand man. None of these other clowns who hang around here are good enough.”
Kyrill takes the bottle, almost unconsciously and down the remainder. The clock ticks. It’s three hours past the New Year. Suddenly, he wants to cry.
“Kolya… Kolya… what if he gets out?”
“Who’s going to bail him out, if not you?”
“No, no, no, never, I’m never bailing that bastard out.” Cursing came more smoothly this time. “Not after what he did to you. Kolya…”
Kyrill is poised over the couch, and notices that Nikolai’s body tenses. God, it’s fucking beautiful. When he was riding that worthless devotchka at the bitch stable…
“Kolya…”
“A?”
“Kolya, what’s up, huh?”
“What’s up?”
“Show me the wounds.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nikolai mutters, rolling his eyes just enough to be noticed, even by a drunk man.
Kyrill suddenly descends to his knees beside the couch, pushing the shirt up with a quick violent move.
“Stop, piderast.”
“Stubborn Siberian bull,” Kyrill says, keeping the hem of the shirt above Nikolai’s nipples, his head dropping down and rubbing into Nikolai’s chest.
“Kyr…”
Kyrill is rubbing his forehead back and forth against Nikolai’s pectorals, nose deforming as he pushes his face into the chiseled torso, smelling sweat with the faint metallic shadow of blood. He extends his tongue to trace the cross drawn across the sternum, but Kolya’s wide hand shoves his head back.
“Too much drinking, Kyrill.” That voice, like an indulgent parent to a child. Infuriating, in a way, but it’s so fucking pacifying too. He doesn’t have to tell Kolya not to tell anyone about this. Kolya knows without being told. Kolya always saves his ass without being asked.
Kyrill leans back, breathing heavily, face flushed, a grin spreading across his face, breaking into laughter. His laughter sounds undignified, he can tell even when he’s drunk, but Kolya’s face softens when he hears it, eyelids shutting half way again.
“Fucking drunkie,” he mumbles, pulling the shirt down.
“Come on!” Kyrill suddenly shouts, hitting him against the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go visit the girls. It’ll do you good. No medicine in the world like tits and pussy.”
“Screw you, I can barely move.”
“Then just sit and watch, you fucking jelly. You fucking eunuch queer. We’re going, it’s my order.”
Kyrill is laughing so hard tears are streaming out of his eyes.
In that spirit, I bring you hurt/comfort fic for New Year's. Happy 2008 everybody!
Gawd, I start to forget html code after a couple of months away from livejournal >.<
I could not have predicted that I would like Viggo so much, ever.
Title: Time for Turnover
Fandom: Eastern Promises (is EP a fandom? no dedicated lj slash community to this canon slash stuff is really a criminal shame)
Pairing: Kyrill/Nikolai
Rating: PG
Warnings: slash, minor spoilers, unbetaed... because there is no EP fandom and/or I've let all my lj friendships lapse
A/N: Set after the end of the film
They’ve taken Papa away right during the New Year’s Eve party, and it’s disconcerting-there’s relief, but there’s also dread… isn’t he a dreadful son, Kyrill wonders, to rejoice that there will be no more kicks to the gut, no more humiliating slaps, no more devious little attempt to drive a wedge between him and everyone-him and his wife, his children, Kolya…
Kolya.
Kolya, who lies sprawled out on the ratty couch in the wine cellar under the restaurant, Sometimes a piece of the confetti from upstairs still floats down the staircase in the draft. There’s a piece of it in Kolya’s otherwise perfect slicked back hair, but damned if Kyrill is going to go pick it out. No, he’s perched uneasily on the armrest of the couch, watching Kolya out of the corner of his eye-Kolya who’s still wincing in pain if he shifts ever so slightly, his body tattooed not only in ink but deep knife wounds, still raw, like a primal rite of passage. He’s still wearing the tatty sweatshirt he came in from the hospital, and Kyrill can see his collarbones because the neck is wide and loose. Nothing like his usual getup.
Kolya is the reason Kyrill can be at ease about putting his father away. Fucking traitor. Like he couldn’t have handled those Chechen swine on his own, without Kolya taking the hit.
But no, it’s true. He looks at Kolya. ‘Siberian bull,’ he calls him, because his body, especially when out of his grim-undertaker-black suits is a juggernaut of raw, tense strength. And he got so fucked up by the two brutes. He was unarmed, and still took them out, in a fucking bathhouse. No, Kyrill would have died in a puddle of his own blood on that white tile floor, and he knows it.
“Kyryuha, hand me a bottle of something…” Nikolai exhales, barely moving his lips. It’s that cool manner that makes everything he says sound like an endearment, if not for the cold edge at the end, like tender flesh pressing up against a razorblade.
Kyrill jumps up to get an ancient bourbon from a crate, a little bit too happy, a little bit too hurried, so he takes care to saunter back, to miss Kolya’s outstretched hand and run the green glass of the bottle against Kolya’s cheekbone. Casual behavior becomes such a difficult art in his presence.
“Healing up, tovarish?”
“Neither here nor there,” Nikolai mutters in Russian, taking a small swig. He almost never drinks. The wounds must be hurting like a bitch.
“I hope he rots in jail,” Kyrill suddenly says, watching Kolya’s face intently for a reaction. “I hope he gets worse than what he set you up for. Papa or not, I have no feelings left for that bastard…” But Kyrill’s voice fades on the expletive, the spectre of his father still too fresh, perhaps, to be talked about lightly.
“Semyon knew his stuff,” Nikolai says, resting the bottle on the floor, still more than three quarters full. “He just underestimated with me.”
“Well, it’s time for turnover, as they say. I know your worth. You’re my right hand man. None of these other clowns who hang around here are good enough.”
Kyrill takes the bottle, almost unconsciously and down the remainder. The clock ticks. It’s three hours past the New Year. Suddenly, he wants to cry.
“Kolya… Kolya… what if he gets out?”
“Who’s going to bail him out, if not you?”
“No, no, no, never, I’m never bailing that bastard out.” Cursing came more smoothly this time. “Not after what he did to you. Kolya…”
Kyrill is poised over the couch, and notices that Nikolai’s body tenses. God, it’s fucking beautiful. When he was riding that worthless devotchka at the bitch stable…
“Kolya…”
“A?”
“Kolya, what’s up, huh?”
“What’s up?”
“Show me the wounds.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nikolai mutters, rolling his eyes just enough to be noticed, even by a drunk man.
Kyrill suddenly descends to his knees beside the couch, pushing the shirt up with a quick violent move.
“Stop, piderast.”
“Stubborn Siberian bull,” Kyrill says, keeping the hem of the shirt above Nikolai’s nipples, his head dropping down and rubbing into Nikolai’s chest.
“Kyr…”
Kyrill is rubbing his forehead back and forth against Nikolai’s pectorals, nose deforming as he pushes his face into the chiseled torso, smelling sweat with the faint metallic shadow of blood. He extends his tongue to trace the cross drawn across the sternum, but Kolya’s wide hand shoves his head back.
“Too much drinking, Kyrill.” That voice, like an indulgent parent to a child. Infuriating, in a way, but it’s so fucking pacifying too. He doesn’t have to tell Kolya not to tell anyone about this. Kolya knows without being told. Kolya always saves his ass without being asked.
Kyrill leans back, breathing heavily, face flushed, a grin spreading across his face, breaking into laughter. His laughter sounds undignified, he can tell even when he’s drunk, but Kolya’s face softens when he hears it, eyelids shutting half way again.
“Fucking drunkie,” he mumbles, pulling the shirt down.
“Come on!” Kyrill suddenly shouts, hitting him against the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go visit the girls. It’ll do you good. No medicine in the world like tits and pussy.”
“Screw you, I can barely move.”
“Then just sit and watch, you fucking jelly. You fucking eunuch queer. We’re going, it’s my order.”
Kyrill is laughing so hard tears are streaming out of his eyes.